


Mockingbird

by Cherry_Coco_Berry



Category: Original Work
Genre: Death, I Don't Even Know, Original work - Freeform, might get more chapters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2019-01-07 01:27:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12222945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cherry_Coco_Berry/pseuds/Cherry_Coco_Berry
Summary: He placed his glass down onto the table--he could hear even the clinking of the glass against his table with how still the night was--and frowned into the red liquid inside of it. It was very rarely that he drank wine and tonight wasn't an exception, his drink of choice being a fizzing fruit juice affectionately called by his friends "kid wine." Unfortunately, he didn't have time to ponder why he seemed to be the only one in his generation not enamored by alcohol, more important things needed to occupy his mind. Like his unfortunate and untimely demise.





	Mockingbird

**Author's Note:**

> Unlike everything I write ever, this is an original story written out of boredom. I had (and still have) no idea where I was going with this. I might add more chapters to it if it get positive feedback and/or if I feel like it, but I might just leave it as is.  
> -Toby

The night was calm, only the faint calls of night-birds breaking the silence of the country. The country was a place so unlike the city in that respect. Never before had he thought he would miss the clamor and ruckus of the Big Apple, but now he found that the quiet he had always craved was more than a little paranoia-inducing. Even the humming of cicadas outside of his door and windows was menacing tonight.

He placed his glass down onto the table--he could hear even the clinking of the glass against his table with how still the night was--and frowned into the red liquid inside of it. It was very rarely that he drank wine and tonight wasn't an exception, his drink of choice being a fizzing fruit juice affectionately called by his friends "kid wine." Unfortunately, he didn't have time to ponder why he seemed to be the only one in his generation not enamored by alcohol, more important things needed to occupy his mind. Like his unfortunate and untimely demise.

This was, of course, a tad misleading as he really hadn't  _died_ yet, but it wasn't his fault the he was a melodramatic fool. The point was, however, that he was scheduled for death the very next day. He didn't want to die.

The clock mounted on his wall, ancient and sagging with its own weight, chimed behind him to announce the dawn of the day he spent his last five years dreading. The frown that seemed to have permanently taken up residence on his face deepened as he forced himself to stay put in his chair and  _not_ smash in the face of the timepiece as retribution for interrupting his brooding. His many-times great uncle Charles Manikovinch would surely disapprove of his life's work being destroyed by such a rash action. Such a violent end would most likely have been deemed unfitting for the once-beautiful, hand-carved cuckoo clock.

Abruptly his mind was torn out of its nonsensical musings as just what he dreaded appeared before him.

"Death," he choked, voice barely a whisper.

The entity, shrouded entirely in black fabric that shifted like the shadows of a candle-flame, nodded in acknowledgement.

"Your time," it intoned in a graveling voice that grated on his ears, "is up. Come peacefully."

The man sighed in defeat, knowing that to protest a being such as _Death_ would only end in pain for him. He only wished he had had time to say goodbye to his family. But this mess he was in? He could not, in good conscience (a conscience which was admittedly silent when it was most needed), allow his family to  _ever_ know about this.

Seeming to understand the slump in his posture as willingness to comply, Death placed it's pale, skeletal hand and too-long fingers on his forehead. Before he even had time to react to the frigid touch, he watched his body slump to the floor, drained of life. Drained of his soul.

_What would his parents think when no-one could figure out why he died so suddenly?_

The soul hovered in place for a mere moment before Death wrapped its millions of wings around him-- _had it had wings before? Was he only able to see them now that he was dead?_ \--and transported him to where he would be spending what could have been the remainder of his human life and what surely would be the remainder of his afterlife.

Hell.


End file.
